


The Answer

by Faisalliot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (it was Harry’s general mental well-being), ...Or is it Mother Harry Potter?, Black Hermione Granger, Casual Discussion of Suicide, Cedric Diggory Lives, Crack Treated Seriously, Harry Potter is a Good Parent, Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, I Put No Thought Into This, I promise, If you’re looking for a soap opera this is the FIC for YOU, Indian Harry Potter, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Sirius Black Lives, Sirius Black is also stoked to be a Grandpa, Teen Dad Harry Potter, but at what cost, thats what makes it GOOD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24565684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faisalliot/pseuds/Faisalliot
Summary: Harry revolutionizes birthing in all of the Wizarding world as a direct consequence of a single hour of effort and becomes a teen mom! Who’s the baby daddy?? How did he get pregnant?? HOW CUTE IS HIS BABY??
Relationships: Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Harry Potter & Weasley Family, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Sirius Black & Harry Potter
Comments: 48
Kudos: 110





	1. Where We Start

**Author's Note:**

> oooh hope y'all are ready. Yes, the Soap Opera Summary style is PURPOSEFUL. Now you’re trapped into GOOD WRITING??? For SHAME!
> 
> Anyway. Chapter one just sets the tone for how fucked Harry is at the moment. Revel in the angsting for a bit, I'm just getting a feel for what the fuck I'm doing. 
> 
> This is not my main work--this is my warm-up fic before I work on the heavier, more serious things. Do not expect quality work, and do not expect constant chapter lengths. It will all vary. Just sit back and enjoy the bullshit, alright? It's a crackfic.

Fifteen was a fucking awful age to be.

First and foremost, it sucked because Harry could never recall being quite so _perpetually_ pissed off, much less to its current degree, in his _life,_ save for when he was twelve. Which didn’t count, because we don’t _talk_ about being twelve (it was a horrible experience the likes of which Harry never again wished to relive or describe).

Second and... _post_ most, while twelve was the worst because of all the new boners and weird sexual questions (the answers of which traumatized you in spirit-altering ways) age fifteen sucked nearly as much because that was when those _really_ hit you.

Really, the only saving grace of being fifteen was that at least you knew how to be _prepared_ for it this time around. That didn’t stop it from sucking something fierce. Try as you might, one really can’t ignore all of the raging hormones, the pus-filled batches of unwanted acne, the inexplicable hair showing up in places not worth mentioning, the unfathomably awkward first sexual encounters (sorry Parvarti), the voice cracks, and the angst. Oh god, the angst. 

So, yeah, fifteen was awful. And, as was the running theme with most things in his life, fifteen was even worse for Harry in particular. Because, as melodramatic as this was going to sound, Harry had a certain propensity for seeking death.

Okay, yeah, _wow_ melodrama, Harry’s really sorry for that. But he wanted to acknowledge here and now that yeah, he sought out death―not actively, of course, this whole shebang was definitely on a more passive level. But nevertheless, it was pretty evident that this was the case, given just how much nonsense he often found himself mixed up into. His frequent trips to the Hospital Wing as a consequence of such happenstances weren't helping his case much either. Like, it wasn’t as if he was about to take a knife to the wrist or anything, but if a car came barreling towards him out of nowhere, he’d probably think something along the lines of, “Well, this might as well happen.” before thinking “oh fuck, I should move.”

This likely stemmed from some sort of need for the “””suffering to end”””, of which had plagued him for the brunt of his life, even before he’d ever consciously understood it. He wasn’t a complete idiot―he knew and accepted it for what it was, understood that it probably wasn’t alright, and moved on with his life. It was just a part of him. And it wasn’t like it wasn’t without reason anyway―just how many terrible things had he undergone in his life, huh? 

Like the prior school year, he almost got Cedric Diggory killed just by _existing._ It was irrefutable that if Harry was just dead, Cedric would’ve never been yanked into that graveyard with him and _very_ narrowly avoided dying. Harry had _barely_ managed to shove Cedric into the cup in time, and it had come at a cost: he hadn’t been able to follow. He had wound up stuck in the graveyard. So. That had been fun. 

And if being stranded in a dark, unfamiliar graveyard with a dude who literally just tried to murder someone in front of you wasn’t enough, _then h_ e’d been forced to aid and witness the resurrection of Lord-fucking-Voldemort, the demented batshit crazy dark wizard who killed his parents and almost Harry himself. And then he had proceeded to be, oh, y’know, tortured and tormented for hours on end before someone _finally_ had the sense to view Cedric’s memories to trace the graveyard and get Harry the hell out of dodge.

This was not a night that Harry wanted to review again.

As if that debacle wasn’t enough trauma to last him for a lifetime, there was also all of the life-long emotional head spinning and cupboard-locking, courtesy of the Dursleys, that had been tacked onto his back before he’d even gotten his ass beat by Death Eaters. Like, he was sure the worst thing he’d ever have to experience was that one week-long stint locked up in his cupboard, but no! There was more! Throw in the Dursley Edition gift bag of reputation destruction, intermittent starving, and forceful unreasonable amounts of physical labor, yadda yadda blah blah, Harry’s life sucked, you’ve heard it before, and then you’ve got a walking clusterfuck of “uuUUuUhuhuH SPARE DEATH PLEASE????”

And THEN—because no, no, Harry wasn’t done yet—throw in the dementors, the basilisk, the fact that he was an orphan in general, several instances of racism from muggles and a select few muggleborns, the whole thing with Sirius and Peter, seeing Ginny near death on the ground, crashing a fucking car into a tree, losing Ron’s friendship for a sizeable stint for reasons outside of his own control, getting his shit wrecked by giant spiders, rinse and repeat attacks from good ol Tommy R himself, and Umbridge’s blood writing along with everything else he might’ve missed― 

And _then_ pile that on all the weird shit going on with Harry’s body and mind.

It was all pretty damning and at this point, well, it’s surely become completely understandable that fifteen was worse for Harry than most folk and that it was okay to be a simmering little cauldron of pure, unadulterated rage and hurt at the moment, thank you very much, unsupportive loved ones! And thus, if Harry’s slightly reckless behavior and morbid attraction to death was exacerbated by being fifteen, well, he could hardly be blamed for it, could he? It was perfectly normal for someone in his circumstances―it wasn’t anything to worry about. 

The only thing Harry _really_ had to worry about at the moment was how heavily his angsting had amplified such ideations. And, like, Transfiguration homework and similar ilk, but that wasn’t the point right now. The point was that everything was okay because he was working on it, dammit. Yes, he was definitely hovering on the cusp of having a complete meltdown 24/7―which he’d very much like to avoid, thank you very much―but he had his shit together fairly well for someone in his shoes. And at the bare-boned end of it, he could rest assured that all of his... _concerning_ behavior could be safely pinned on being fifteen.

This was fine.

Really, he was doing great! He was even smart enough to put two-and-two together from his freak-out at Grimmauld Place to figure out that hey, clearly bottling up all of his feelings wasn’t doing shit to help him! So when things got particularly rough or his hand really started hurting from all of his detentions with Umbridge, Harry did his best to resolve all his thoughts by reflecting them into other things. 

He did not think of how much the light aggravated his near-constant stress headaches―he thought of how pretty the light looked when it gleamed on the stonework, or how lovely the ripples of light looked on Ron’s face. He did not think of the sting in his hand―he thought of the beautiful penmanship glittering across the top of it, and gave himself the proper credit for his phenomenal handwriting with a silent thank-you to Hermione’s crash course back in 2nd year. When blood rolled down his skin, he did not feel disgust or fear―he just admired that blooming, deep red color and thought of soft, thorny roses instead. When his eyes drooped in class, he did not think of his exhaustion―he occupied his thoughts with soft things and quiet dreams, and gave himself something to look forward to. 

He did not think at all when it became hard for him to breathe. He focused only on his body then, how the stones in the wall jutted into his back, how his robes scraped heavily against the back of his thighs, how his shirt stuck to his skin, and how the harsh gusts of air swirled in and out of his lungs. And then he held his hand over his mouth and nose until he didn’t breathe at all, because it wasn’t hard to breathe if you couldn’t in the first place. That was about when he started to float. Blissful, free floating, like he was just a mind hitched to a body that moved for him. He loved it. 

Sure, it was a little frightening at times because he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten somewhere, maybe it tilted him off-kilter when he found gaps where hours should be, and maybe it was a little disarming to notice he was wearing clothes he couldn’t recall pulling on, but it was almost kind of fun to be surprised by which pair of pants he’d find himself wearing when he went to the bathroom. It was almost a game at this point―had he put on the lime-green ones, or the pair with chickens on them? Perhaps the starry purple ones that reminded him of Dumbledore’s robes? Or maybe the plain, red plaid ones? There was that one time he accidentally took Neville’s pygmy puff patterned ones, though, which was kind of traumatizing to find out. He pointedly did not think about his dick touching the same place Neville’s once had, even if they were―hopefully―clean, because _ew._

Apparently though, this whole floating and not-breathing shebang wasn’t a super stellar thing to be doing, judging by Hermione’s horrified face when he let a detail slip. Honestly, it was silly how it had happened―the conversation had started over Hermione complaining about how she could barely breathe through the dust in the Restricted Section of the library. Harry hadn’t been paying much attention, being a little too busy admiring the different colors of the rocks embedded in the floor, and just kind of threw out something along the lines of “Don't breathe then, you won't die or anything for awhile." 

It had been in jest, obviously, and it was kinda funny when Hermione played along, asking him what he knew about not breathing, citing that he couldn’t just stop breathing. But then he just noted that, er, no, you could just cover your mouth and nose, easy, and he hadn’t noticed it until after Ron hedged a little cautiously, “Mate, you sound a little too experienced in that, got something to share?” that something was amiss, but he sure caught on once he and Hermione both stopped in place upon him saying, “That's what I do when I start breathing all hard for some reason. Can't be hard to breathe if you're not breathing at all, yeah? Problem solved."

Yeah, they hadn’t seemed super enthused by that, and it did nothing but shoehorn him into a supremely awkward conversation with Professor McGonagall that involved her asking him, very seriously, if he was “experimenting” with certain forms of “sexual conduct”. That had forced him to frantically explain under no uncertain terms that no, he was _not,_ what the _hell_ was she talking about, and then learn about something called “autoerotic asphyxiation” which he was so genuinely horrified by that, by the end of it, McGonagall was entirely convinced he was not engaging in such an activity. She refused to look him in the eyes for days on end afterwards, and the sentiment had been entirely mutual. 

So, that whole debacle had been Fun. 

And by Fun, Harry meant one of the most humiliating experiences of his (pitifully short) _life_ ―which was not at all helped by the rumors that spread as a consequence. He’d given Ron and Hermione the cold shoulder for a whole week despite profuse apologies, and from then and on, he was very, very careful not to let Hermione and Ron know about any of his other coping practices, no matter how much they wheedled him. 

He was _fine,_ dammit. All of this was just a part of being a pubescent fifteen year old, honestly, and even if it wasn’t, absolutely nothing was worth another atrocious Talk with McGonagall. He would literally rather die than have to hear anything remotely similar to “heighten sexual arousal during masturbation” pass her lips again. He had not been prepared for the hodge-podge cocktail of emotions that string of words had evoked in him back then, and he very much doubted he ever would be. 

So, with all that said, fifteen was an awful age to be, and Harry was certain it was even worse for him than his other peers. Not because he was self-important or anything―he really wasn’t important at all―but because of the genuine evidence that supported his claim. Having just spent a vague twenty minutes thinking all of this out, Harry nodded to himself, and caught the tail end of a strange look from Hermione. 

“Hm?” He hummed lowly to her, wondering vaguely where he was for a second―he could’ve sworn he was just in the Great Hall for lunch―and quirked an eyebrow to make his silent query known.

“What are you nodding about?” Hermione whispered, and Harry was confused as to why she was doing that before he noticed all the books and thought ah, I’m in the library. 

“I was thinking about something dumb.” He settled on blandly, and looked down at the book in his hands. When the hell had he grabbed this? 

Hermione was still looking at him strangely though, and after a moment, he returned her gaze, a bit of frustration leaking into the back of his mind. What was her problem? She said nothing though, just kind of peered at him before, after a tense beat, she stood up, walked around the table, and sat next to him. He was expecting her to say something, and was cautiously surprised when she said, rather benignly, 

“What are you reading?”

That was a good question―Harry had no clue. He could see a strange diagram that looked like an upside-down cauldron though, so he said, “Something about potions.”

Hermione said nothing for a moment before noting casually, “You do realize it’s upside down, don’t you?”

Harry looked down, expressionless. Ah. So it was. He righted the book and suddenly, the diagram made a lot more sense. “I was just channeling Luna.” He said blandly. “I suppose.”

“You suppose.” Hermione echoed dryly, and then sighed. “Harry, what’s going on with you?” 

He subtly tilted his right hand to the side a bit more, and frowned at her. “Define ‘going on’ with me.”

Hermione looked at him in a helpless sort of way for a moment, before she took him gently by the elbow and pulled him up and away from the table. His book clattered noisily to the oak wood and he nearly tripped over the bench on his way out, but he made it out generally unscathed.

“Hermione, what―?”

She shushed him, threw a “Not here,” over her shoulder, and strung him along out of the library. Honestly, Harry was doing great until he was halfway towards the doors that lead to the corridor, but that wasn’t saying a lot considering it normally took less than ten seconds to get across the library anyway. Point was, though, Harry had been yanked up too quickly and before he could so much as get another “Hermione” out (why on earth did her name have to have so many bloody syllables?) he was tottering forward and nearly bowling her over from behind. She whirled with a gasp and held him upright by his shoulders, but the damage had been done. 

_“Harry!”_ She hissed, and tried to lower him to the ground, but Harry was absolutely _not_ doing that in the library, thanks. 

He stayed stubbornly upright, exhaled with some effort, and gestured towards the door quickly. Hermione looked very much like she wanted to shout at him, but she held him up as she dragged him out anyway, pointedly ignoring the curious glances being shot their way. Great, people were going to start teasing him for swooning again, just like third year. He felt like he should’ve been a whole lot less concerned about that than the black dots popping in and out of his eyes, but he was a bit too preoccupied with not passing out to particularly care about what he ought to be caring about. He has just thought the word 'care' a lot. Man, he should lay down. 

Somehow Hermione managed to drag his sorry ass to the Common Room, though Harry wouldn't bother with asking himself how long it had taken because he was honestly pretty unsure. Like, he'd blinked and found himself facing a flight of stairs. He didn't know about you, but that made him feel like he wasn't a particularly reliable source of information at the moment. Hm. His hand hurt. People were peering over at him but looked away quickly for some reason, and he didn’t bother himself with worrying about it. 

Definitely wasn’t his problem for the time being; he was still struggling with staying awake, which might’ve been a little problematic now that he was thinking about it. Hermione all but shoved him into one of his favorite armchairs, muttered something about how she should’ve just _taken him to the Hospital Wing, honestly―_ and then started undoing his tie. Whoa, whoa. 

He grabbed her hands to stop her and, struggling to focus, got out, “What are you doing?”

She leveled him with an unimpressed stare that was tinged with something like desperation, and she said, in a very low voice, “I’m taking off your tie because you are boiling , Harry. Sit still.”

Harry felt like sitting near the fireplace was counterproductive if he was boiling, but the flames were soothing and warmed his feet and hands, which suddenly felt very cold, so he said nothing. Hermione pulled his shoes off next and huffed a derisive, grudgingly amused laugh at his socks. One had snitches on them, he noticed, and the other had a big cow emblazoned across the top of it. Huh. He couldn’t remember putting those on. What fun. Where had he even gotten the cow sock from, anyway? Hermione pulled away, and he went to sit up, but she pushed him back down with surprising force. Or perhaps he just wasn’t as strong as he thought. 

“Stay here.” She ordered sharply. 

Well, he didn’t want to get hit, and he felt kind of off anyway, so he obeyed. She was gone for a stretch of time. Harry wasn’t quite sure for how long, but next thing he knew, her hand was back on his shoulder and he was gasping a bit. Shit. He couldn’t remember dozing off. The anger seemed to have left her face, leaving behind something akin to worry creasing her forehead, and after a moment she held out a cup with something in it. He grabbed it with both hands, and watched with detached interest as the liquid inside began to warble amusingly. Hermione made a sort of frustrated noise, and he realized with a jolt that the liquid wasn’t actually moving at all―he was just shaking. That seemed bad. 

“Quit staring at it and drink the water, Harry, it's not like it's going to jump out of the cup and bite your nose.” Ron said suddenly, voice low but exhaustedly commanding.

 _Whoa._ If he had the energy to, Harry might’ve leapt straight out of his skin. When had Ron shown up? Ron sounded sort of angry though, and Harry was so tired of people being angry at him, so he struggled to settle his hands and pressed the rim of the cup to his lips to drink. It wasn’t warm but wasn’t ice cold either, just a pleasant chill that felt soft in his mouth and slid down his throat very easily. He blinked, swallowed, and the next thing he knew, the water was gone. Huh. He must’ve been thirsty. Someone―either Ron or Hermione, he wasn’t paying attention―pulled the cup out of his hands and replaced it with a bowl filled with soup. 

Soup was a different story than water, even though the latter was the base of the former. He stared at it for a while, unsure of how to proceed because he really didn’t want to eat it, and some sort of vague distress must’ve shown up on his face because a freckled hand covered one of his own. Ron. A source of warmth slid next to him in the armchair, hip to hip, and Harry realized with a start how cold he was. And his head was just...really heavy. Thankfully, Ron--yes, it was Ron--didn’t seem to mind him leaning in. If anything, he encouraged it, raising a shoulder in invitation. 

“C’mon, mate, lean on me.” 

Hermione’s voice was soft but insistent as she murmured, “Ron, he really should eat."

“I know, I know,” Ron said hastily, placating, “But look at him, ‘Mione. Give him a bloody minute.” 

Harry was on Ron’s side with this one. He was definitely not capable of soup at the moment, and rather wished that “a bloody minute” would turn into never. With a frustrated click of her tongue, Hermione pulled the bowl away from Harry, and scurried off to go...do something. Harry didn’t actually know. 

“Hey,” Ron murmured lowly once she was gone, and Harry tried very hard to focus on him. Ron shifted his arm a bit, and Harry worried for a moment that he was going to get up just as much as he wondered what he was doing, and relaxed when Ron just settled his arm around him. “Do me a favor and kip there for a bit, alright, mate?” 

Harry furrowed his eyebrows, and tried not to wince when it hurt his head. “Why?” He croaked.

Ron huffed a bit of a laugh, and his hair tickled Harry's face a bit as he shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, just do it. It’s alright.”

It was tempting, for sure. Ron was so very warm, and he was very cold...and his eyes were drooping...surely Ron wouldn’t mind if he were to curl a little closer? Harry tried to, and was a bit put out, maybe even a little hurt, when Ron stopped him with a grunt, but that was quickly washed out by a sprig of panic when Ron took him under the shoulders, lifted him into the air, and then placed him back down. What the fuck, _what the fuck?_ What just happened?

He lifted his head with some difficulty, and processed his new position. Ron was sideways in the chair now, his great, gangling legs hung over one of the arms with his head pillowed on the other, and Harry was curled up in a loose ball, wedged between the back of the chair and Ron’s left side.

This was surprisingly comfortable. 

People around him were laughing, but Harry was too mystified to be overly concerned with it. They didn't sound like they were laughing meanly, and Ron was laughing too, so it was probably okay. Ah, that was it―he must’ve made some kind of noise. He was about to complain, but that was when a soft blanket fwumped over his head. So that was what Hermione had been doing. She’d gone off to find a blanket for him while Ron tried to wrestle him into going to bed. 

Suddenly, Harry connected the dots. 

Ron and Hermione were making him take care of himself! _Those bastards!_ They seemed to pick up on the fact that _he_ had picked up on what exactly they were doing, because they exchanged a vaguely amused look. Unfortunately, he couldn’t do much about it, because now he really wanted to go to sleep―scoundrels, the both of them!―so he went down without much fuss when Hermione placed her hand between his shoulder blades and pressed him down gently. 

“We’ll talk about it later, but this is really for your own good, you prat.” Ron murmured into his hair, and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

Well. Damn. He really couldn’t argue with that. So, he went down for the count, and he went down _hard,_ falling into sleep with the grace and ceremony of an elephant in high-heels. Which. Was probably good for him, huh.

  



	2. The Question

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kate this is RIDICULOUSLY long and its just for u bby. ily. kisses.

Harry remained functionally dead to the world for what must’ve been a couple of hours judging by how bloody dark it was in the common room upon his return to the land of the living. 

He blinked in the darkness, trying to shove off a distinctly off-kilter feeling, and took a moment to puzzle out just what on earth was going on. He was...hm. Alright, so he had a splitting headache. That wasn’t new, but it didn’t feel scar related, so it was probably alright. Aside from the whole headache business, there was a deep chill set in his bones, and every bit of him just ached in general. 

Much like the aforementioned headache, neither of those things were particularly surprising. On top of all of this, his hand hurt. A lot. Not new either. He was also noticing absolutely no improvement in his level of exhaustion even though he’d undoubtedly been conked out for more than a handful of hours, which was frustrating as hell but _also_ aligned with his expectations.

The only thing that he wasn’t anticipating was the clarity. Harry had spent the last couple weeks or so―which suddenly seemed like an awfully long time―operating solely on a mix of sheer luck and half-assed autopilot. To have clear thoughts was more than a little disarming which was, in an ironic sort of way, really sad now that he was capable of thinking of it.

And since he could think so well, Harry worked out very quickly oh, hey, he was totally laying on top of someone. He floundered for a moment, wondering how the hell that had happened and who was holding him in the first place, before he hazily recalled Ron picking him up like a ragdoll and forcing him into restful submission alongside Hermione. And―ah, dammit, people had been laughing. Shit. 

―And then, something on top of his head _moved._

 _Ah! Spider! Beat it! This is not your land!_ ―Harry jumped and began to thrash, but then said “something” began to card soothingly through his hair much _unlike_ a spider with a quiet, sleepy hum and _oh,_ it was a hand. Not a spider. Oops.

“Harry?”

He craned his neck back a bit, and there was Hermione, sat upright underneath both Harry and Ron. He hoped her legs hadn’t fallen asleep, and then wondered how on Earth she’d managed to wedge herself back there. 

And so he asked just that―”How’d you get back there?”―though it came out a bit slower than he would’ve liked, more out of bleariness than anything else. 

God, he still felt so fuzzy. And hurt. In general. A lot. He felt like he’d probably already made this point. 

Hermione laughed softly at the face he was making at her and explained, “Some clever levitation. We knew you were down for the count when you didn’t so much as twitch.” 

“‘S he up?” Ron mumbled sleepily from somewhere above Harry’s head, and Harry almost laughed on reflex, only because the rumbling of Ron’s chest sort of tickled.

“Yeah,” Hermione resumed stroking back Harry’s hair, which he wanted to be upset about but found that he couldn’t really muster it. 

“Why’d you guys…” He trailed off, trying to think of a way to phrase this, but couldn’t draw anything up. 

Hermione did the work for him, but in sharper terms than he would’ve used. “Force you to drink something and go to sleep so you wouldn’t keel over and die? For the reason I just gave, Harry.” 

Harry frowned and said disapprovingly, “I was _not_ about to keel over and die.” At least, he didn’t think so.

He was expecting Hermione to retort, and was fairly surprised when it was Ron that took over. “Mate, you didn’t see yourself.” He squeezed Harry’s shoulder and tried to sit up a little bit, which Harry was confused about before Ron’s back cracked and he sighed in relief. “Mind, you were hiding it really good, but me and Hermione figured out really quickly that you weren’t feeling well. You just―you kept bumping into things, you―you talked less, and sometimes it didn’t seem like you knew where you were.” His voice got a little quicker which was usually indicative of him _actually_ caring, which made Harry suddenly want to bury himself in a pit of shame. Ron was a fairly easy-going bloke―unless you talked shit about his family, then you were done for―so for him to get worked up over this meant that Harry was more than likely the one being a dick here. Dammit. “You didn’t even touch your lunch, and Hermione told me about how you almost fainted in the library. And then, when you were sitting here, you...you were shaking _really_ bad, Harry. I just about thought you were having a fit.”

Harry didn’t know how to respond. Almost on reflex, he started to say that, “I’m…” but couldn’t get the “fine” out, knowing damn well that they wouldn’t believe him for a second.

And believe him they didn’t, because Ron tsked a derisive sort of scoff and said, “You’re not fine, Harry, don’t try to sell me that bullshit.” 

“I wasn’t gonna try.”

“And for good reason! You haven’t been fine for awhile, Harry. We both know it, and I just--” Hermione cut herself off, and sighed. “I _want_ you to be fine, but we can’t help you get there if you clam up. You _always_ do that, you _always_ clam up, but you just―” Her voice caught. “―You _can’t_ do that now. I can―I can let it slide with other things, like―like...oh, I don’t know...Quidditch practice or―or Malfoy being a git, I can let _those_ things slide because I _know_ you can handle it, but―!” Her voice kept amping up with distress and Harry was touched, truly touched by how much she cared, but it was really starting to make his head throb. Blessedly, Ron stopped her, and finished, bluntly,

“There’s a lot, mate. A lot of shit happened, and it’s really not fair for you to have to deal with it by yourself. I...Hermione and I _both_ made that mistake this summer and, well, I’m sure you remember better than anyone else how great _that_ panned out.” Harry grimaced at the memory, and said nothing. “Point is...listen. I know me and ‘Mione…” He seemed to struggle with wording for a second, before hesitantly getting out, “...I know we’re not the greatest at emotional talks, okay? We get―well, we get worked up, and I know you don’t like it when we kick up fusses like that, but I want―no, I _need_ you to understand that we’re here for you.”

You know.

This was really nice and all and Harry was touched by it, but he felt like he’d appreciate this a lot more if he wasn’t on the verge of going back down. It was good they were telling him all this, really, but he just kinda wanted to go back to bed and confront the heavy topics later, when his head was no longer pounding and he didn’t feel so cold. So, to defuse it all, he sighed into Ron’s chest and said,

“...You guys _just_ woke up and you’re already waxing poetic about our friendship. Were you guys dreaming about the Care Bears or something?”

Hermione smacked him over the head just as Ron said, “Shut the fuck up, Harry.” 

Harry laughed tiredly, vaguely pleased with himself for having ruined the moment, but all the while, something in his chest unwound slowly, allowing him to exhale slowly and with a strange sort of relief.

“I will admit, we had a bit of a talk while you were asleep. That _was_ sort of rehearsed but...oh, Harry, you do know we mean it, right?” Hermione asked anxiously.

“Yeah, of course.” He said firmly. He was tired as hell, but it was important that they knew that _he_ knew. 

And, truth be told...well, he hadn’t even realized something like this had been bothering him until just now. But he supposed he hadn’t been aware of much of anything lately, had he? 

The days had just been passing along, creeping like yellow in unwatered grass, and he’d just been going through the motions for a good long while. Just an endless daze where nothing but his own two feet and the perversions of familiar faces existed. All the gaps had become commonplace, and the gibberish in his ears had become his new language. It had been so empty, and now that it was all gone, at least for _now..._ something about all of that suddenly seemed awfully scary.

Like, _really_ scary. He scrambled to put a finger on it because yes, for _obvious_ reasons it wasn’t a particularly good thing to notice that, hey, you’ve been on autopilot for literal weeks of your life now, what the hell, man, but he had this distinct impression that there was a personal fear tied to this too. He racked his sleepy brain, and with a jolt, he recalled what Ginny had described possession feeling like.

Not knowing where you’ve been for hours, noticing things you don’t remember doing, finding yourself with gaps in your memory...Harry was experiencing all of that. But he wasn’t possessed, he was _sure_ of it. Nothing bad ever happened, his scar never hurt, but...Harry’s mind raced. It always seemed to happen when he stopped thinking about hard things, like the lights on the stonework or his own penmanship, and―and it got bad when he started breathing hard, that was when he _really_ started to slip. 

But surely his scar would be burning if Voldemort was in his mind? It _always_ did that, so Voldemort _couldn’t_ be doing anything...could it be possible that he was... _possessing_ himself? No, no, that was daft, people don’t _do_ that. 

He thought briefly of seeing if they’d make good on their earlier proclamations and telling Ron and Hermione, but that was when he recalled their faces the first time they visited Arthur in St Mungos, when they’d eavesdropped on Moody and the other Order members. When they thought he was possessed by Voldemort. But no, no, he’d already ruled that out, hadn’t he? 

The more and more he thought of it, the more frightened he became at the thought that perhaps he _was_ being possessed after all. He knew somewhere inside that his scar _would_ have hurt, but the rest of him didn’t seem to get the memo. He tried desperately hard not to spiral, not in front of them, not after they’d _just_ had a good moment where it seemed like everything would be okay, but now there was something like terror welling up deep in his chest and he wanted to…

“Harry?”

Goddammit, he couldn’t _breathe_ , couldn’t― _no._ He _wouldn’t_ breathe. _Don’t ruin the moment, c’mon...It’s not hard if you can’t do it at all,_ He thought wildly, and tried to surreptitiously clamp his hand over his nose and mouth. No such luck in hiding the action―almost immediately, Ron tried to wrench his hand away. 

“Harry, what are you _doing!?_ Stop it!” Hermione cried sharply, and the sound of it reverberated in his ears so unpleasantly that his eyes began to burn.

Raw, unfiltered panic started to lace his veins and suddenly, everything felt like too much, the warmth―the blanket―his clothes―his _skin._ He began to twist away. They needed to―they _needed_ to stop touching him, needed to get _off_ of him! Ron wrapped his arms around his middle and maybe it was supposed to calm him down but Ron didn’t _understand,_ it was too much and he needed to get _away_ before he freaked out entirely. His vision started going black and Harry flung his hand away from his face, gasping. 

“Harry―!”

He wriggled free and tumbled to the ground, slamming his elbow painfully onto the carpet. 

“Off!” He cried through a heave of breath, and scrambled backwards, “Get _off,_ don’t _touch me!”_

Something seemed to light up in Ron’s face and he stopped dead, to Harry’s great relief. 

“Ron, move!” Hermione demanded, but he didn’t, keeping her pinned with his legs. 

“Hermione, _wait.”_ He said sharply, and Harry would have appreciated it more if he could get in a proper breath. 

Harry kept himself nailed to the floor. He kept gasping, and curled further and further away from them both, and he expected Ron to cave to Hermione when she started pinching his legs―Jesus, Hermione―but Ron held his ground and did not try to approach him. Yes, _yes,_ Ron was―Ron _got_ it, thank _God._ They stayed at a stalemate for a long while as Harry tried to get his shit back together, and he thanked every good force he could think of for creating Ron the entire time. 

Hermione quieted eventually, and soon, the common room was filled with nothing but their quiet breaths, and Harry’s own decidedly harsher ones. Rather belatedly, Harry was grateful that the common room was completely deserted, save for a snoozing sixth year he vaguely recognized who hadn’t so much as twitched all this time. 

“Fucking _fuck,”_ Harry muttered after a moment, finally sitting firmly on his rump and leaning forward to press his forehead into his knees. 

“...Language,” Hermione said after a tense moment of silence, voice meeker than he’d heard it in a while. 

“What was _that?”_ Ron asked quietly, hand still on Hermione’s shoulder. “You alright?”

Hermione sent Ron a look, as if she thought he were very thick, and Harry couldn’t help but huff a semi-hysterical laugh, holding out his hands. “I don’t know.” He wheezed in response when they turned to look at him, “ _God,_ I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Ron and Hermione visibly exchanged a look, and the latter said, very gently, “There’s nothing wrong with you, Harry, you’re just...having a rough time?”

Harry did not think a ‘rough time’ constituted missing hours of time and the suddenly very real possibility of being possessed, but Harry didn’t think it wise to mention this. 

“What was that about, though?” Ron repeated his question, shifting to face Harry a bit more. 

Harry shrugged, shaking his head tiredly. “I was just...worried.” That wasn’t technically a lie. “Now that I’m, like, awake and shit, everything just kind of hit me at once and I couldn’t stop.” His voice cracked embarrassingly at the end, and he huffed, scrubbing at his face. 

They both seemed to take this as it was and they sat in silence for a minute or so before Ron spoke again, slow and a bit hesitant. “...You told us to get off of you. I figured out that you _actually_ wanted us to after a second, but I don’t know why.”

At least this was something Harry could answer without any clever omissions. “I dunno, just―the constriction? It was so much _touching_ and squeezing and it hurt just to wear my clothes, much less feel you both all over me. It was...well. It was a lot, I guess.” He said sheepishly, sniffling at the end. “I needed you to get off because it was just making me freak out more.”

“Oh,” Hermione said after a moment, and seemed to slump. “ _Oh.”_

“Is there anything we can do, mate?” Ron asked, coughing a bit. Harry didn’t miss the way he squeezed Hermione’s shoulder. 

Honestly, though, Harry couldn’t think of anything except for the exact things he _didn’t_ want to think about. “Got any way to make my brain shut up?” Harry proffered weakly. 

Hermione chewed her lip. “Well, I just read _books_ to do that…” 

Both Harry and Ron groaned in unison, but Hermione huffed and snapped, “Oh, you moan and groan as if you’ve ever actually read a book in full in the last couple years!” 

“Yes, I have!” Harry lied through his teeth, looking at the ground. 

Hermione didn’t buy it at all and leveled a frown at him. “Honestly, anyone could learn to love to read if they just found the right book.” 

Harry sincerely doubted this, and said challengingly after a beat, “And what do you suppose would be the right book for me, then?” 

Hermione blinked, as if she hadn’t expected the question, but then something in her face shifted and, after chewing on the inside of her cheek, she tapped Ron’s knee and said, “Let me up.”

“Oh, come off it, you’re not really going to give him a book, are you?”

“I _am.”_ Hermione said primly, struggling out from beneath Ron’s legs. “And I’m almost sure he _will_ like it.” 

And with that, she rounded the couch and scurried upstairs to her dorm. 

Ron looked down at him and sighed exaggeratedly. “There she goes, trying to make us _learn_ shite.”

Harry huffed a laugh, shakily rising up to stand and edging back towards the couch. “Oh hush up, you’re talking like you’re stupid.”

“I _am_ stupid.”

“Nuh-uh.” Harry said shortly, sitting gingerly on the edge on the couch and smacking Ron’s leg. “You’re very smart.”

Ron looked as if he were fighting back a grin, “Not by books.”

“Well, no shit.” Harry rolled his eyes. “But other things? Yeah.” 

Ron looked him in the eye for a moment, and then suddenly, viper-quick, he dove down to capture Harry by middle and yank him backwards into a wrestling match on the couch. It quickly devolved into Ron holding him in a headlock and noogie-ing the living shit out of him, but Hermione returned just in time to catch Harry aiming for Ron’s crotch to shout at them to be quiet before the woke up the whole damn school.

And then, with barely restrained anticipation, she pressed a very thin, small book into his hands. 

Harry looked down at “Mick Harte was Here” with a bemused sort of frown. 

“It’s not a happy book, and it’s not long,” She said softly, but looked down at it fondly all the same, “but I think the author did a good job. I chose it because if nothing else, it’s short enough not to bore you. I picked this up at a yard sale before I went to stay with Ron and you this summer, and it really made me think of you. Just try it, please?”

Harry looked down at the book, up at Hermione, thought, _‘ah, what the hell’,_ and decided to humor her. 

_That,_ my friends, was the very beginning of what had Harry wind up, for literal _months,_ with his face stuck in a book. He ripped through Mick Harte was Here like it was tinfoil, cried his eyes out in the comfort of his four-poster, and it had snowballed from there. He’d gone to Hermione, red-eyed while Ron scoffed good-naturedly, and all but demanded she recommend him a couple more books like it.

Running with Scissors from Augustus Burroughs, Forgive Me Leonard Peacock from Matthew Quick, A Monster Calls from Patrick Ness (this one, in particular, had destroyed him), The Joy Luck Club from Amy Tan, We from Yevengzy Zamyatin, 1984 from George Orwell, Their Eyes Were Watching God from Zora Neale Hurston, Warm Bodies from Isaac Marion (his personal favorite), even the Great Gatsby from F. Scott Fitzgerald. Harry hadn’t been very into that one―for some reason, Gatsby reminded him very much of Snape, which was doubly weird because Nick had seemed _really_ into him.

Eventually, in-between good works of fiction, Harry had even begun to read _textbooks_ and stuff. Like, _productive_ things. And as it turned out, Hermione hadn’t been crazy all along―there actually _was_ some good stuff in textbooks, and goddamn her, Hogwarts: A History actually _was_ fascinating. And so, days bled into days, weeks into weeks, months into months, and honestly, Harry hardly _noticed_ when exams came, too caught up in reading about the importance of pH in restorative salves, potions, and poultices or the stray fairy tale. 

Truly, though, the less said about the exams the better, given that Harry doesn’t wish to bore you with the semantics of transfiguring a snail into a teapot or the properties of redwort flowers. Suffice to say, he felt like the exams had been shockingly easy this go-around and significantly less bothersome than all his other years. Which was very suspicious, considering this was his O.W.L year and the apparent hardest transition. 

He was pretty much entirely convinced he’d done so poorly that it only _seemed_ easy, and he very much wanted to stress about it, but whenever he did he’d just pick up a book instead and drown out his worries with anything from Babbity Rabbity to intruder-alerting rune circles. Runes were surprisingly fascinating, actually―he had no _goddamn_ idea how they worked and was sure he’d make a remarkable fool out of himself were he ever to so much as attempt to draw one, but as time went on they got pretty easy to recognize and he amused himself by quizzing himself on obscure ones. 

Then there was the whole business at the Ministry. _That_ debacle had rattled Harry enough to stop reading for a bit, but in the end, it had been alright: everyone made it out alive, Voldemort was outed to the world, Umbridge got what she deserved, the slander against Harry stopped, and life moved on.

And it was only when he was forced to go strutting back to Grimmauld Place that summer, it was only when he was through his fourth (probably illegal) book from the Black Library that, save for the one about Sirius that had led him to the Department of Mysteries, he realized he’d not gotten a single vision from Voldemort in months. 

That had been distinctly unnerving, but Harry eventually swallowed his unease about this with a flood of words, muttering _‘isa, kaunaz, jera, laguz, uruz, eihwaz, algiz, sowalo…’_ under his breath, which got him some exceptionally strange looks from a lot of the Order members during dinners. Hermione seemed to get a kick out of it whenever it was noticeable, and Harry was not blind to the way she’d nudge Ron and smile evilly at him. 

And then he’d gotten his O.W.L results, and subsequently had to _frantically_ hide them from Hermione when he found out that she'd gotten an EE in one of her subjects...and he’d gotten straight O’s. He had _screamed_ when she tried to snatch them from him and inadvertently burned the paper to ashes, and had been subjected to a _lot_ of jeering since then about how he’d ‘’’failed’’’ his O.W.Ls, and he did not breathe a word of it. 

_(“Harry, you reading all the time was supposed to HELP your grades, not make them worse!” Hermione had cried in despair as he watched, numbstruck and guilty as hell.)_

He valued his life, thank you very much. 

But yeah, it came as no surprise when he got a _shitload_ of books for his birthday that year. Jokes on everyone else, though―for the first time in perhaps his entire life, Harry had _wanted_ books anyway! Even if a couple of them were about study tips. Hah. 

Eventually, around when Harry got back to Hogwarts for his sixth year with a bunch of obscure, rare books stuffed in his bag, he migrated from learning things from books to asking questions about the stuff he read, which Hermione seemed very smug about.

He read the almanac of Reagent Reactivity, and after he’d digested it, wondered what would happen if you tried to neutralize the basal quality of aconite with scurvy grass when you made a sleeping draught, since the saltrice used otherwise reacted with the aconite to make a side-effect of brain-fog whereas scurvy grass would only interact with it to soothe muscle pain. He asked Snape, and once the man had stopped staring at him like he’d lost his mind, he essentially told Harry to fuck off, but a day later, leveled a sneer at him and told him that the scurvygrass would react with the ash-hopper essence to inflame the throat. 

He leafed through Transfiguration and Transmogrification: A Dilemma and after he’d understood some of the deeper theories, asked Professor McGonagall about why, instead of transfiguring a leaf into a blanket, you couldn’t simply transfigure it into a handkerchief and cast engorgio on it to make it bigger. She’d beamed at him in pride, congratulated him for his attempts problem-solving, but told him that doing so would completely unravel the transfiguration unless it was an incredibly powerful one, and you’d be left with a huge leaf. 

He’d examined the properties of the Featherlight Charm (Minpondus) as he spent a night scouring the book of Theory of Charmwork: Flight Edition and inquired as to why it was so difficult to cast the spell on yourself mid-air. Flitwick looked delighted by the question and told him that the spell required the caster to be grounded in some sort of way, and unless they could focus enough to use the air whipping around them as their “ground”, the caster wouldn’t be able to cast it. 

Every class, he’d have some sort of new question clonking around up in his brain that he simply wanted to _know._ Not to be cool, or smarter, or anything like that: he was just curious, and wanted to fill in the gaps. It became commonplace for his teachers to greet him at the door with some variant of “What strange question do you have for me today, Mr. Potter?” and he wasn’t even mad about it. 

It was only when he was sifting through some articles about Polyjuice Potion and musing about his second year that _it_ happened. 

Harry got a new question. 

_What would happen if I polyjuice into a pregnant woman?_

The question _plagued_ him for days on end, making him zombie-walk through the hours (and often into things). He couldn’t find any answer, no matter how many books and studies or articles he tore through, and a million contradictory arguments ran through his head like a feedback loop. It was _amazing_ that seemingly, no one had _ever_ thought to try it. 

And he hadn’t tried to ask Professor Snape yet―he wasn’t sure how well versed the man was in Potions _studies_ and wasn’t about to demean himself by asking. But he was still pondering it, running through argument after argument in the man’s class when suddenly― 

“Daydreaming is not a graded activity in this class, Potter.” Snape hissed from behind him.

Honestly, if he wasn’t so caught up in the middle of his newest argument for his polyjuice question, he might’ve jumped.

Snape went into a bit of a tirade, but it all came out as whooshing in Harry’s ears, completely and utterly drowned out by the now-hours-long battle of logic in his own head. Here was his thought process now:

A cancerous lump and a baby were both inside of someone’s body. Neither could be removed without some difficulty nor without cutting some important things away, so it was indisputable that both things were, at the bare minimum, _attached_ to someone. 

And not in the way clothing was--like, you could glue a zipper onto yourself, but it still wouldn’t be an _organic_ bit of yourself that you _grew,_ unlike a cancerous lump or a baby, so if someone were to polyjuice into you after you superglued a zipper to your forehead, they wouldn’t have a zipper. But if you had a visible, cancerous lump and someone polyjuice-d into you, they _would_ have that lump until they shifted back to themself. 

So, since a cancerous lump was a part of someone’s body and _that_ showed up on someone else if they polyjuice-d into the cancer belumped bloke, logic stood to say that if you were to polyjuice into a pregnant woman, you yourself would be pregnant until you morphed back to yourself because a baby was attached to you and was organic material, just like a tumor. Harry was fairly certain of this.

 _But,_ on the other side of it, not only was an _entire fucking fetus_ made of far more complex cells than a cancerous tumor, but two people had to be involved to make it happen! Gametes and zygotes! Half of the zygote baby inside of a mom-to-be was made of cells that _weren’t_ her own. So, even if her belly was building a baby, it wasn’t _just_ her cells involved in the end, and polyjuice only changes your cells to match someone else’s for a short while. Like, _all_ of the work in the actual building process was done by the mom, yes, _but_ the template of the zygote did involve another person’s initial cells that mom _didn’t_ develop on her own. So, logic _also_ dictated that, hey! You probably need two people no matter _what_ to make a baby!

But _that_ logic, the logic that you needed _two_ people to make a baby, introduced a whole _new_ angle of fuckery. 

Because _technically,_ with polyjuice potion, you _would_ have two people involved; you, and whoever’s appearance you were stealing for a while. So, if that worked the way he was thinking, you probably _would_ be pregnant since there was two people involved, the zygote baby is organic material, and attached, all of which he’d already established for himself earlier.

And in addition, even _if_ you needed two people involved, the baby was already _inside_ the woman no matter which way you sliced it, and when you polyjuice into someone, you take _everything,_ so _technically_ you could say that, even factoring out yourself, there’d still be two people involved. And it’s a _part_ of her, an organic, fused, fully-attached part. So. Logic dictated that there’d be a baby in you. 

_But,_ if that were the case, what would be up with the baby?

Would you have a baby inside of you that was a genetic copy of the other lady’s baby? Would you have a spontaneous baby with half of your DNA, and half of the lady’s? Would you have a clone of yourself? Would you just have _half of a baby in general_ because you only took the woman’s genes _?_ Floating around in there? Oh, that was a scary thought. 

And if―and if you did, through some miracle, _have a whole baby,_ what the hell happened to them when you switched back to yourself? Did it just flop out of thin air and slap the pavement? Did the half of them that _wasn’t_ you come spilling out, assuming that was the case at all? Would they turn into goop? What would _happen_ to the goop? Or would you _still_ be pregnant―even if you were a man!―and need to get some serious help? 

And―

―oh. 

Oh god. 

A hand seized his shoulder and forced him to look at Snape. “What,” He said in a low, dangerous tone of voice, “ _juvenile_ trifle is so _utterly_ important that you feel the need to completely ignore me?”

And this was where it happened.

Before he could get the sense to scream NO at himself, Harry blurted, “I was just wondering what would happen if you were to polyjuice into a woman that’s _right_ about to give birth?” 

This was _clearly_ the last thing Snape was expecting to come flying out of Harry’s mouth, and if he wasn’t too busy being bowled over by a wave of mortification, Harry might’ve been pleased with himself for making Snape make a face like that. 

Snape blinked at him. Hard. “ _What?”_

Alright, well, in for an egg, in for a dragon, right?

The class was dead silent and Harry fought down a flush of embarrassment as he hurriedly outlined, “I read the other day that if you’ve got a visible lump from like, cancer or something, if someone polyjui--if someone were to use polyjuice p-potion to turn into you, _they’ll_ have the lump until they morph back to themselves. The―The theory is that polyjuice makes your cells match someone else’s for a short while, and so, you’ll have all the same bits. Following that logic, a baby is _also_ part of someone, because―because you’ve got the umbilical cord, right―?”

“―Potter―!”

Oh, but Harry wasn’t stopping now, not when he was this deep into it. “―No no no, listen, so I was wondering what would happen if you were to polyjuice into someone who was pregnant. A fetus is made of more complex cells than a lump, yeah, and you need two people to get those cells anyway, _but,_ if you were to polyjuice into someone, there would _technically_ be two people involved, right? So I figured out that you’d _probably_ be pregnant, so then I wondered, what would be up with the baby? Would the baby be a genetic copy of the other lady’s baby? Would you have a clone of yourself? Would you have a spontaneous baby with half of your DNA, and half of the lady’s? Would you just have half of a baby in general?”

Hermione grabbed his arm. “Harry, please―!”

“―No! I’m almost done!” Hermione buried her head in her hands, then. “So then I was thinking, if there’s a baby at all, what the hell happens to it when you switch back to yourself? Does it just flop out of thin air? Would you still be pregnant and―and need to get some serious help? And then, seriously, _just_ now I thought about what would happen if I polyjuiced into a lady about to give birth.” And this was the new dilemma, which Harry dove into with the zest of a delirious, fevered man. “Because I would probably be pregnant, right? And then I’d probably be in labor! If I pushed out a baby, it would technically be a born, living thing, so―so what would happen when I switched back to me!?” He slammed his hand on the desk, and pointedly did not look at the expression of growing, thunderous horror on Snape’s face. “I need _answers!_ And I―and I _scoured_ the library―even the restricted section!” Harry thrusted a finger and said quickly, “Which I got permission for! And―and _no one_ has ever tried it! But I want to know! _What would happen if I polyjuiced into a lady about to give birth?!”_

Snape stared at Harry, who was heaving for breath and shaking a little. 

Harry stared back. 

There was a long, tense moment, where a vast number of expressions flitted across Snape’s face, none of which Harry had ever seen before. Thoughtfulness, horror, annoyance, disgust, nervousness, deep thought, disappointment, and finally, frustration. He looked down at Harry, white lipped, and said. 

“You know what, Potter?” He sucked in a long, long breath, and let it out in a helpless gust. “Get out. Just get out of my classroom. Come back for class next week, but for today, you’re done. I don’t want to see your face until next Tuesday. Go.”

Everyone was staring at him in varying degrees of horror, so Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed his shit, and hauled ass out of the potions classroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly??? i completely forgot this existed. like, i still used this as a warm-up but i forgot i ever posted anything, but then Kate brought it up and i had a "OH FUCKING FUCK" moment lol. when i use this as a warm-up, I just write a completely random scene that pertains to it. for this chapter, i wound up splicing together, i shit u not, bits from six different scenes I went into as i used this as a warmup. U can thank Kate for this monster of a chapter--I felt bad lmao
> 
> ANYway. 
> 
> Join Amanda's server or PEWISH.  
> https://discord.gg/TMhegQu


	3. After the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HERE U GO KATE ILY

Hogwarts was in crisis, and it was through no fault of Voldemort’s.

No, the unlikely (depending on who you asked) perpetrator of the ongoing mental disarray going on with the denizens of his current residence was Harry Potter himself. His little explosion about Polyjuice Potion and pregnancy in Snape’s classroom had not only convinced the man that Harry had lost his mind entirely, but had travelled so thoroughly throughout the school that the Ravenclaws were having turf wars over it and both Dumbledore and Flitwick looked exhausted. 

If anyone else had come up with the idea, Harry was reasonably sure there wouldn’t have been nearly as much logistical uproar as there currently was. Ah, the burden of fame. As it stood, though, much of the school had been clamoring to find him an answer and/or prove him wrong in terms of no one doing it….and it was becoming increasingly obvious that there  _ was _ no research on this and no answer to be found.

Teenagers did not seem particularly pleased about this. 

And once the, Harry shits you not, once the  _ twenty-second  _ miserable Ravenclaw approached him (and this was a number  _ specifically _ for Ravenclaws) with a forlorn face and exhausted answer of “there’s nothing.” Harry finally came to a conclusion. 

He was going to try it himself.

Now you, as a reader, know exactly what the fuck is going to happen and exactly why Harry should _ not _ do this. Alas, Harry is not blessed with the certain level of omnipotence you yourself have as an observer, and he is not yet aware of your frantic screams of “NO!” or, perhaps “YES” if you’re one of those weirdos. So. To make a long story about vocabulary-searching, semi-helpful but mostly overly enthusiastic house elf advice, equally enthusiastic help, and various anxieties short, Harry penned a letter to the Head Healer of St. Mungo’s.

_To Head Healer Alaunus Bliason,_

_I’m sure it may be the source of some confusion, seeing that you’ve received a letter from Harry Potter, resident Boy Who Lied. Well. I suppose the V belongs back in there now. First and foremost, before I delve into the actual aim of this letter, I would like to apologize for my utter lack of formality in advance, and thereby warn I’m not at all learned in interaction with those as high-ranking and wonderfully powerful as yourself. I thank you for your patience in reading this letter, and for understanding that nothing in this letter is intended to offend or disgust._

_I’m writing to you in concern of research I’d like to conduct. Several weeks ago, I engrossed myself in readings about Polyjuice Potion. The long-term effects of it on user bone structure, identity theft, physiological changes, the link between the body and mind, psychosomatic after effects, the whole kit and caboodle. Eventually, I stumbled across a relatively recent study concerning tumors and polyjuice, in which much of the most overarching theories about Polyjuice Potion were succinctly disproven when participants gained a protruding tumor belonging to the core subject._

_This discovery fascinated me._

_The idea that Polyjuice potion can and will copy all aspects of the donor’s body through hair alone is phenomenal and really makes the difficulty of the brew make much more sense. I looked for more research concerning the copying aspects of Polyjuice and not only found any study lacking, but also came to this question, which is also the primary reason for this letter._

_I want to investigate what would happen if one were to use Polyjuice potion to transform into a pregnant woman, and later, a woman in labor._

_I and many of my associates have scoured Hogwarts library, Family libraries, research libraries, and any and all wizarding libraries of which they may have access to. The resounding conclusion is this: no one has attempted to do this before. _

_So. To make this succinct, I would like to be the first._

_I don’t expect anything to actually happen. Fetuses are composed of much more complex cells than that of tumors, and involve two people to make. However, there’s so many nuances and uncertainties that it seems worthy to at least attempt this, if only to see what happens. Since there is an incredible amount of unlikeliness of anything actually occurring and since this is still a nuanced question worthy of study, I’d like to pursue an answer to make my own relatively low-risk contribution to the study of Potions. _

_It’s my understanding that St. Mungos has a well-kempt maternity ward, incredibly competent staff, and has allowed research in the past. If you’re at all interested in allowing me to partake in this endeavor or have questions, please write back to me. In the case that you would allow me to run this experiment, attached to this letter ought to be a contract that would absolve you and your institution of any and all liability for damages caused by this experiment, signed by my magical guardian and myself. If you’re not interested, by all means, cast this parchment into the fireplace._

_Thank you very much for your time and consideration,_

_Harry James Potter._  
  
---  
  
All of the information in the letter was true, even the Magical Guardian signature. Harry just gave Dumbledore, his apparent magical guardian, a contract he’d written up, made the print  _ very _ small, told the guy it was a research opportunity, and just asked him to sign it. And he did. So, what was done was done, and now, Harry waited. And waited Harry did―five whole weeks slogged by and he’d already long-dismissed the research attempt (and was definitely  _ not _ looking into  _ un _ official methods to try this,  _ what are you talking about, Luna) _ when he finally got a return letter. 

To summarize the response best: the Head Healer was  _ very _ enthusiastic about the implications of this experiment and, since he’d already provided written consent and a signature from his guardian, Harry was allowed to do it and all he had to do was swing by to arrange a time.  _ Apparently _ the letter had only taken so long because the Head Healer had been trying to clear it with the _ Ministry Board of Magical Medicinal Aid and Sciences _ , and had only just gotten word that it was totally fine on the bounds of “There’s an incredibly minimal likelihood of anything of real consequence or longevic value occurring, so, by all means. Who are we to deny a pursuit of scientific knowledge?”

Man, wizards were fucking awesome. Harry was  _ very _ excited about this, and now that it was feasibly possible to make this happen and thus any scolding would be worth it, it was only  _ then  _ that he deigned it necessary to tell Ron and Hermione. And, just as he’d expected, he met a simultaneous,  _ very _ worried-sounding chorus of― 

“Harry, DO _ NOT―” _

¨―Absolutely  _ not,  _ NO, what the fuck!”

Now, Harry didn’t know about anyone else, but as of recently, whatever he deemed ‘a good idea’ typically hinged on the amount of people explicitly telling him  _ not _ to do it. 

It was a character flaw, truly, but after that whole debacle in the ministry and in the graveyard, he’d made the executive decision to just give up on attempting normalcy entirely. It was something about the cruciatus curse—specifically the fact that he’d been held under it for several minutes on  _ both  _ of the aforementioned occasions—that had surely boggled things up in there. Like, YES, of  _ course  _ he could differentiate the _ actual  _ bad ideas. 

No murdering people no matter how tempting, no active attempts at self harm (again, no matter how tempting), running around naked in the Great Hall would be hilarious but horrendously frowned upon, and it probably wasn’t a good idea to harass Snape at any given opportunity, but inconsequential shit? Throwing quills at goggling pedestrians? Drinking Gin with Luna on the Astronomy Tower?  _ Surfing _ down the astronomy tower on a conjured, feather-light mattress? Diving into the Black Lake to hang out with the mermaids to avoid class? Staying up until 2am and partying with Crookshanks on nights he couldn’t sleep anyway? Psh. If he died, he died, and that was that. He didn’t give too much of a shit anymore. 

The whole point of this spiel, though, was to get across this: if Hermione and Ron were both literally screaming “NO!” at him over polyjuice-ing into a woman in labor, he was definitely doing it.

Why? Well, that was the beauty of it—for no good reason. Yes, the question he was pursuing an answer to was fascinating and he’d have fun, but he knew there was no good goddamn reason as to why it had to be  _ him.  _ But he was  _ going _ to do it, because Harry had absolutely fuckall to lose and no one worth impressing. Ron and Hermione had both seen him throw up before and Luna was―well. She was Luna. And she’d seen him barf too. There was no going back from that, no matter  _ who _ you were, and he wasn’t trying to look cool to them anymore.

And it wasn’t like there was going to be any REAL consequences to this. He’d had a bit of a rant in Snape’s classroom all that time ago, but not only had he REALLY hashed out all the potential consequences and their likelihoods since then, but so had the  _ Head Healer _ and the literal fucking Ministry Board of Medicinal Aid and Sciences. The consensus between him and all available avenues of authority was that they were  _ pretty _ goddamn sure that the only thing he’d need to really worry about was the disconcerting sensation of having a new set of genitals for an hour or so. Seriously, it just seemed fundamentally impossible to just up and grow an entire  _ baby _ out of nothing by drinking a foul potion. And no one had ever tried this before, not on record, so why not? Why  _ not? _ At least he’d be contributing  _ something  _ slightly worthwhile to alchemy, and all without anything  _ bad _ or particularly long-lasting coming out of it. He wasn’t worried. 

Of course, the same certainly could not be said for Ron nor Hermione, hence exactly why he was 100% going through with it, and doubly hence, the predicament Harry was now in. 

”Harry, when I said you needed to handle yourself better than the whole,” Hermione whished her hand about anxiously. “thing you were doing before, with the not breathing and ghosting, I thought you’d just go for the books and  _ stick  _ with those. You were doing  _ so _ good. ‘Find a better way to cope’ did  _ not  _ mean “go for things that will potentially end in catastrophic disaster”. PLEASE do  _ not _ try to polyjuice into a pregnant woman, just―leave it for—for a  _ professional  _ or something.”

Harry wasn’t having it. “Alright, did you notice you used the word “potentially” in there, though?”

Hermione got a really frustrated look to her face, but that’s when Ron broke in with an admittedly good quip, “And did you notice that you sound completely batshit, mate?”

Goddamn, that was good. 

Harry was impressed by the wit there, and almost commented on it before thinking better of it and instead folded his arms to say haughtily, “Well, as much as I’d LOVE to leave this to professionals, they’ve proven to be total pussies throughout history, so, it’s down to me. I’m doing it.”

Hermione looked fit to explode. “That makes NO sense, Harry. WHERE in this equation does professionals being puss—pussies trace back to you!?”

”It’s in MY equation.”

”Your equation sounds like a load of bollocks,”

”You don’t even know what rockets are, Ron. Your thoughts on equations are worth dirt.”

Ron looked briefly offended, but then held out his hands in an “eh” motion and shrugged. “Alright, I admit it, you’ve got me there, but seriously mate, this has “bad idea” written all over it. I KNOW you think the worst that’ll happen is that you’ll—you’ll have a vagina for awhile, but no one’s ever tried this before, ever  _ thought _ to try this before, so there’s no guarantee that something doesn’t go screwy and you wind up with something crazy. And with your luck, I don’t think you ought to be tempting fate with this one.”

Ah, curse Ron for being the voice of reason. That was supposed to be Hermione’s job. She was  _ really  _ rubbing off on him, probably because they were making out so much and he was swallowing some of her words. Ew. 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Well, what are you two going to do? Tell my parents?”

Ron was evidently unimpressed by this low-blow judging by how he fixed his face into a glare and said firmly, “I’ll tell mum.”

Harry thought of Mrs. Weasley’s wrath for a moment and  _ really  _ considered, but then promptly remembered that he was the favorite child. He worried for a moment that not even  _ that  _ would be enough...and then he recalled the graveyard, and just what had happened inside his own head at the Ministry. A chill crept up the back of his neck and he frowned, tamping down the unwanted prickle of fear.  _ This was supposed to be a happy time, _ he reminded himself.  _ Don’t ruin the moment.  _ He knew of things that were a lot scarier than an angry Molly Weasley, but he didn’t need to let it show on his face.

”Your mum doesn’t scare me,” He said pompously when the silence stretched, and watched Ron’s face screw up in stony disbelief for a moment until it eventually melted into pure horror as he nudged Hermione. “Oh, sweet Merlin,” he whispered loudly. “He’s gotten too powerful.”

Hermione glowered at Ron. “You’re both idiots and I’m going to strangle you, Harry.”

”Good luck reaching that low,” said Ron. 

Harry very nearly launched himself at them both for that one, but self-preservation won out in the end (Ron was built like a tree and was just as tall: bad plan) and he fumed. ”I just don’t get what you two are so fussed about,” He said plaintively, even though he knew damn well what they were fussed about and why. “I mean, I already wrote to the healers at St Mungos and they don’t give a damn.  _ They _ don’t anticipate anything bonkers happening—what makes you guys think your judgement is any better?”

Ron looked like he thought this was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard come out of Harry—which was most certainly not true given that he’d been privy to Drunk Harry and Sleep-Deprived Harry more than once in the past couple weeks alone—and said, in the most “duh” tone of voice you can imagine, “I  _ live _ with you. Literally. Most of the year you’re my roommate, and  _ every  _ year I get roped into some sort of insanity with you. I am DEFINITELY the authority when I say that you have the most batshit luck in existence and that it WILL screw you over somehow in this. The, er, spider-senses are going off like mad, mate. I don’t care what the healers at St Mungos said, all I care about is that I KNOW this is going to end in some sort of disaster and you’re doing it anyway.”

Well. Harry didn’t have a good rebuttal for that, so instead he said feebly, “It’s  _ spidey _ senses, Ron, fucking hell.”

Ignoring him, Hermione put in her own two cents. “And HONESTLY, what are healers THINKING, letting you do this anyway? You’re not even an adult yet! What makes them think in any way, shape, or form that it’s a GOOD idea for you to try this? Even if nothing comes out of it and it turns out that me and Ron are worried over nothing, it’s still completely mad that they’ve given you permission in the first place!”

Harry shrugged, making an “I-dunno” noise, deciding internally that it probably  _ wasn’t  _ a good idea to tell them that he’d swindled Dumbledore into inadvertently signing the forms that allowed him to do this. “I’m close enough to 17 that they’ve decided “screw it” and it’s not like I’ve got any guardians that’ll care enough to sue if this goes horribly wrong. Even though the whole Voldemort thing came out, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed or not, but I’m still not very well-liked by the media right now. They’re not losing anything by letting me do this—if I die, I reckon the Ministry would throw a bloody party. Make it a holiday, even.”

Ron and Hermione shared a look with each other at that, and something Harry couldn’t pick up on seemed to pass between them before Hermione heaved a sigh. “You’re really not going to let us talk you out of this, are you?”

”Nope. You dug your graves and lied in them the second you both said “no” at the same time.”

”And if we said, “hell yeah, go for it”, you still would’ve done it, huh?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“You’re _ impossible.” _

Harry held his hands out, conceding the point. “Also correct. There’s no winning with me.”

“Lovely.”

“Great.”

“Stellar, I know!”

There was a pause.

”So, when you inevitably become a teen...er, I s’pose a teen mom, what’re you gonna name your kid?” Ron said suddenly. 

”Do NOT encourage him!” Hermione hissed, but oh, this was going a new direction now and one that Harry was very much here for.

“Well, if they’re a girl, I was thinking Hedwig, but for a boy, I’d spring for Dobby.” Harry said flippantly, throwing in a hand flap for the extra jazz.

And he said it so earnestly, so gravely, that Ron and Hermione both looked  _ genuinely  _ horrified and repulsed. Harry tried to hold himself together to elongate the joke, but it was a lost cause. He almost immediately gave himself away by bursting into laughter. 

Hermione groaned and reached over to bat at him. “DON’T—sound so SERIOUS when you say things like that!  _ Honestly!” _

Ron had recovered rather quickly though, all too used to Harry’s nonsense from living with him for so long, and once the batting from Hermione died down, he began to look thoughtful. “Truth be told, though, in all actuality I’ve always liked the name Rose. Or, like, I dunno...Hugo or something, for a boy. H names are nice.”

Oh. Oh  _ shit, _ he was being sincere.

Thoroughly unprepared for a conversation as serious as legitimate baby names, Harry shook himself and said, rather weakly, “Rose is cute.”

”Oi, don’t go stealing it!” Ron said, wagging his finger. “Be more original! Name your kid something crazy, like...crocs or something.” 

Harry said, “I am  _ not  _ naming my kid ‘crocs’, Ron―”

At the same exact time that Hermione said, 

“―I would never let Harry do that.”

Well, at least they were on the same page in that avenue.

”I do like the name Rose, though....” Hermione said quietly after a moment, twiddling her fingers. “And I suppose I could get behind Hugo too, I can see why you’d like them, Ron.”

She was making a strange face at Ron, and as Ron got a little flushed, it suddenly clicked what was happening here and Harry resisted the urge to make an exaggerated gagging expression. He didn’t much feel like getting double-whammied by his shamelessly pining best friends today. He had standards, dammit, and those standards included  _ not _ getting gross love cooties. Derailing the whole thing quickly before they could start their whole pining mooning thing, Harry latched on to the floral theme of “Rose” and launched into,

“Well, I was going through some stuff in the attic at the Dursley’s and found an old family photo album from my mum’s side.”

Thankfully, Ron and Hermione seemed to break out of their incoming ogling session and snapped to attention. “Oh, that‘s wonderful, Harry!”

Breathing a small sigh of relief, he soldiered on, “Yeah, it was. Got to see my mum as a kid and everything, saw my grandparents for the first time, you know how it is. Anyway...er, loads of my family on that side had their names written at the bottom of the picture, and I learned that my grandma’s name was Dahlia.”

Hermione looked contemplative for a second, but then her face lit up and he knew she’d picked up on what he was edging on once she said, “Oh! Are flower names a theme in your family?”

”Exactly! Only the girls, though.” Harry explained. “I had loads of great aunts and distant cousins and all them had some sort of plant name. Rowan, Ivy, Iris, Heather, stuff like that. So like, if I have a daughter, I’d follow that theme. So, Ron was onto something with the name Rose, though I won’t spring for that since you’ve both monopolized it, hah.”

Hermione ignored the jab, instead looked warmed, and smiled at him fondly. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Harry.”

Ron looked dubious, though, and said after a moment, “Rowan is a plant?”

“It’s a type of wood, I think.”

“Eh. So, you’ve got a theme if you squeeze out a daughter. Any boy names?”

Harry shrugged. “Shit out of luck there, I’ve no idea.”

”Why not name your son after your father?” Hermione suggested, but Harry made a face.

Not out of a distaste for his father or anything—far from it. But, he’d been chatting with Sirius awhile ago, not long after the whole debacle at the Department of Mysteries, and he’d said something that had rather stuck with Harry.

_ ”My Mother, lovely woman she was, told me once that she named me after her dead cousin, because those named for the dead are doomed to die young.”  _ He’d taken a swig from a whiskey bottle he’d offer Harry no more than ten minutes later, and looked so dismally sad in the darkness of Grimmauld place.  _ “And I remember thinking, ‘ah, this is what she meant,’ when dear old Bella blasted me towards that Veil. So...thanks for pulling me out of that, kid. You helped prove her wrong.” _

And he’d said, much later and much drunker, 

_ ”Do me a favor, and promise me...don’t name your kids after the dead, Harry. I don’t want to risk anyone else.” _

Honestly, Harry probably shouldn’t have heard him say that—any of that, but curiosity had killed that cat and Harry had been compared to one at several instances in his life. He couldn’t help but nudge more out of Sirius. So, sue him once for cajoling and sue him twice for listening, but Harry intended to abide by the promise he made to his godfather that the man himself would never remember, and shook his head. 

”No, I’d go for something fresh. Maybe a derivative of James if anything, but not just the name itself.”

Ron cocked his head. “Huh, I thought for sure you’d go for something like that. Guess not, then? Why? If you don’t mind.”

Harry thought of Sirius slumped against the wall in the kitchen, and he looked askance.

”...Just superstition, ‘s all.”

The conversation sort of dwindled from there and Harry fell into contemplative silence, thinking suddenly about what it would be like to actually have kids of his own. Somehow, he couldn’t envision it at all just as much as he  _ very _ much could. He rather liked babies, to be honest. He hadn’t had too much exposure to them as of recently, but when he was a kid, Mrs. Figg’s daughter sometimes swung down with her own kids and he’d be privy to interacting with them while Aunt Petunia and/or Vernon fucked around doing fun things with Dudley god-knows-where. He could still remember when little Alanna had been a newborn. She’d been just shy of ten the last he’d seen her. She was so big now. Same story with Mrs. Figg’s grandson, though Harry couldn’t recall his name now. 

Harry looked down at himself mid-step―they were closing in on the Black Lake now, tromping through the crisp autumn air―and was struck very suddenly with the realization that he was  _ old _ just as much as he was terribly, terribly young. He felt older than he’d ever felt before in the least pleasant way possible, just as he realized how young he was supposed to be. This was a year where he ought to be getting his first kiss, getting his heart broken, arguing with his parents, getting a job, maybe even learn to drive.

Not drink on the Astronomy Tower at 1 in the morning with Luna and cry into her lap about the monster that lived in his head. The lonely little beast that prowled inside of his brain, and had screamed so fiercely at the Ministry. The shriek had haunted his dreams.

He wasn’t a normal kid, though, and he wasn’t doing normal things. He was fucked up inside, so―so  _ damaged. _ He wanted to love, yearned to, even, but something in him had been irreparably disfigured since the Ministry. Since the Graveyard, even. The thought of being a father was terrifying because something in him was broken, and on some level he was petrified at the idea that he could ever make someone so fragile, so small, so unharmed and raise them to adulthood just to find he’d hurt them the whole time. He was sure he’d fuck it up beyond measure, because being  _ fucked up _ was all he knew. 

And still, deep inside a part of his chest he’d locked away a long time ago...Harry  _ wanted _ kids. He wanted a family. He wanted a little life to love and nurture, and he wanted to raise them to be better than he’d ever been, and give them what he hadn’t had but needed. But he couldn’t.  _ Wouldn’t.  _ He didn’t want to hurt anyone, especially not his own kid. He’d be a horrible father. So he wouldn’t have kids. 

It was the responsible thing to do, no matter how bitter it tasted.

“You okay, Harry?”

He looked up at Ron and Hermione, who he realized at once were still jokingly discussing baby names and arguing over dumb ones. _ (‘Milkweed is a gender neutral name, Hermione, aren’t you all about breaking societal norms anyway’) _ and stared for a moment. 

Ignoring the great, yawning sense of loss growing inside of him, Harry said softly, “Yeah. Fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOT me putting angst in a teen mom crackfic

**Author's Note:**

> https://discord.gg/TMhegQu
> 
> Voila, the server link in question is there. This is NOT my server but it’s my main haunt, and belongs to ANOTHER Tomarry author, called Duplicity and her stuff is AMAZING and VERY MUCH WORTHY OF READING. GO DO SO. And give her the ATTENTION SHE DESERVES, DAMMIT.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity
> 
> GO ON.
> 
> I worked hard on those pictures pls humor me.


End file.
